Aaron Boyd Dunaway v. Kevin R Adler

Let’s cut straight to the chase: a man in Oklahoma is suing his neighbor for $7,375 because he says the guy not only stiffed him on truck repairs but also stole parts from his Ford F-150 like this was a back-alley chop shop and not suburban Yukon. We’re not talking about a shady mechanic in a garage with flickering neon lights—we’re talking about neighbors. People who probably wave at each other over the fence while mowing their lawns. And now? Now it’s war. Over fender wells. Yes, fender wells. You read that right. This isn’t Fast & Furious. This is Neighbor vs. Neighbor: Rust in Peace.

Meet Aaron Boyd Dunaway, our plaintiff, a man who clearly loves his Ford F-150 more than most people love their pets. He lives on Underwood Court in El Reno, which, despite the fancy-sounding name, is not a gated estate but a quiet residential street where the most exciting thing to happen might be a squirrel stealing birdseed. Across town—well, not across town, but close enough that this whole mess probably started with a casual “Hey, can you give me a hand?”—lives Kevin R. Adler. No criminal record, no known history of car theft, just your average Oklahoma guy who, according to Dunaway, somehow ended up in possession of both a debt and some very specific truck parts that don’t belong to him.

Now, let’s reconstruct this automotive soap opera. The filing doesn’t give us a full timeline, but we can piece together the drama. At some point, Dunaway allowed his truck to be worked on—presumably by or with the involvement of Adler. Maybe Adler offered to fix it. Maybe they were splitting a project. Maybe Adler just really liked the engine heads and said, “Hey, mind if I borrow these for a sec?” Whatever the arrangement, Dunaway claims he shelled out $6,375 for repairs on his beloved F-150, and Adler was supposed to reimburse him. But Adler, according to the affidavit, refused. No explanation. No “I’ll pay you next week.” Just radio silence. And not only that—Adler allegedly still has physical parts from the truck: fender wells (which, for the uninitiated, are the curved sections around the wheels that keep mud and rocks from becoming projectiles), the original engine heads (the top part of the engine block, which, if you’re not a gearhead, is kind of a big deal), and exhaust components (because nothing says “I’m holding your truck hostage” like keeping its muffler).

So now Dunaway wants his money and his parts. The total ask? $7,375. Let’s put that in perspective. That’s not life-ruining money, but it’s not chump change either. It’s two months of car payments on a decent used truck. It’s a vacation to Florida. It’s a solid down payment on a new HVAC system in Oklahoma, where summers turn your car into a convection oven. For a neighbor dispute? That’s a lot. Especially when the core issue seems to be: “You said you’d pay me back, and you didn’t.” That’s the kind of thing people usually settle over a six-pack and a firm handshake. Not a court summons.

Legally, Dunaway is making two claims. First: reimbursement. That’s not a fancy legal term—it just means “give me back the money I spent on your behalf.” If you and your roommate split a pizza and they never pay you back, that’s reimbursement. But this isn’t pepperoni—we’re talking major mechanical work. Dunaway is saying, “I paid for repairs that benefited you or were your responsibility, and now you owe me.” The second claim is conversion. Sounds serious, right? Like some kind of religious awakening? Nope. In legal terms, conversion is when someone takes your personal property and refuses to give it back. It’s the civil version of “that’s mine, give it back.” Dunaway isn’t accusing Adler of grand theft auto—he’s saying, “You have pieces of my truck, and you won’t return them.” And yes, in Oklahoma County Court, that’s enough to file a lawsuit.

Now, here’s where it gets juicy. There’s no mention of a written agreement. No receipts attached. No mechanic’s invoice with both names on it. Just Dunaway’s word against… well, against Adler’s silence, because Adler hasn’t responded in the filing. We don’t know if there was a handshake deal, a text thread, or if Adler straight-up ghosted after getting the parts. We don’t know if the truck was being repaired at Adler’s house, or if Adler thought he was being gifted the parts. We don’t even know if the F-150 was running before or after the repairs. Was this a restoration project? A junkyard resurrection? A midlife crisis on four wheels?

And yet, here we are. A court date has been set—February 2026, at 1:30 p.m. at the Canadian County Courthouse in El Reno. That’s not just a courtroom—it’s the stage for petty grievances, where disputes over fence lines, dog barks, and now, apparently, exhaust manifolds, are settled with solemnity and a deputy clerk taking notes. Dunaway wants his $6,375 in cash and his $1,100 in car parts. Or, if the court feels fancy, the cash value of the parts. Either way, he wants justice. Or at least restitution.

Now, let’s talk motives. Why sue over this? Why not just write it off and buy new fender wells? (Spoiler: they’re like $200 on Amazon.) Because, my friends, this isn’t just about money. This is about principle. This is about the unspoken rules of neighborliness. You don’t take someone’s engine heads and vanish. You don’t let them pay for your truck repairs and then act like it never happened. There’s a code. And when that code is broken, especially in Oklahoma, where self-reliance and personal responsibility are practically state religions, you go to court. It’s not just about the truck—it’s about respect. About being seen. About making sure Kevin Adler knows that Aaron Dunaway is not a guy you mess with when it comes to F-150 parts.

But here’s the most absurd part: the specificity. Fender wells. Not “body parts.” Not “truck accessories.” Fender wells. That’s like suing someone for stealing the cup holder from your Camry. And original engine heads? That’s not just scrap metal—that’s nostalgia. That’s “I want to restore this truck exactly how it was in 2003 when I first bought it.” There’s emotion here. This isn’t just a vehicle—it’s a time capsule. And Adler, whether he knew it or not, didn’t just take parts. He took a piece of someone’s history.

Do we believe Dunaway? Sure. Do we believe Adler’s completely in the wrong? Hard to say. Without his side of the story, it’s like watching half a sitcom. But what we do know is this: someone thought it was reasonable to haul their neighbor to court over truck components that sound like they belong in a junkyard inventory list. And that’s beautiful. That’s art. This is the kind of case that reminds us that the legal system isn’t just for corporate mergers and murder trials—it’s also for when your neighbor ghosts you after you drop seven grand on their truck and they walk off with the exhaust like it’s a souvenir.

We’re rooting for Dunaway, not because he’s necessarily in the right, but because he has commitment. He showed up. He filed the affidavit. He wants his fender wells back like a man on a mission. And if nothing else, this case is a public service: a reminder that in Oklahoma, you do not mess with a man’s truck. Or his engine heads. Or his sense of justice. Even if it’s only $7,375 and some rusty metal. Because in the end, it’s not about the money. It’s about the principle. And also, apparently, the fender wells.